Chapter 2
I climbed into the jeep’s passenger seat and tossed my K2 into the back. A quick check of the magazine confirmed I hadn’t used as many rounds as I’d expected, which was a relief. I pulled the seat lever and leaned back.
From the driver’s seat, Yongcheol, my informant and driver, spoke around the cigarette clamped between his lips.
“Did you get paid?”
“I got it.”
“Well, look at you, Min Ahyeon. Getting your pay on time and everything. They grow up so fast.” Yongcheol chuckled and started the engine. “Any info? Find out anything?” he asked, his tone turning cautious.
I dropped my gaze from the jeep’s ceiling to look at him and answered, “Nothing. What would a tiny shelter like that know?”
I turned to the window, tired of looking at his shaggy beard—a beard I’d been nagging him to shave for years.
“That’s why I told you to pick somewhere else. But no, you had to drag us all the way out here,” I stated.
“They said there were a lot of kids,” he responded.
“And are they your kids?”
“That’s called having a little humanity, Ahyeon. You should try it sometime…”
As he rambled, a small child in a green t-shirt caught my eye. I shot upright, threw open the door, and ignored Yongcheol’s shouting as I ran and grabbed the child’s shoulder, a desperate thread of hope pulling me forward.
But.
The child was an Infected. His body, long since ravaged by the virus, was a decaying puppet on the strings of the disease. Such a pitiful thing. Next to it lay another body, its abdomen torn open. Its limbs were still twitching. It was turning.
The child lunged, its jaw unhinged.
I slammed my elbow into its temple and twisted away, creating distance.
That wasn’t my brother. His face wasn’t like that. His smile was a thousand times more beautiful. So it couldn’t be him…
Bang!
Forcing myself not to look at the child’s face, I fired and climbed back into the jeep. Yongcheol was now chewing a piece of gum.
“Hey, are you blind? You really thought that was Woojoo?” He clicked his tongue. “It’s been four years. You think he’d still be that small? Jeez.”
I wanted to snap back, but I didn’t have the energy. I was just tired. So damn tired.
“Boys grow up fast. You might not even recognize him when you find him.”
I didn’t answer. I just stared at the window—at the glass separating me from a ruined world and my ruined self.
Four years ago, the world ended. It plunged humanity into a despair so deep it felt bottomless, a cruel reminder that humans were, in the end, the weakest beings of all.
“I’ll recognize him.”
But I refused to feel despair, refused to feel powerless. I just kept moving.
“His smile looks just like mine.”
I had to find my brother.
* * *
The apocalypse happens at the dinner table.
That’s what some old man who looked homeless told me at the first shelter.
“Even if the zombies hadn’t shown up, humanity was already finished. Don’t you remember? All that talk about radiation, the climate crisis… they screamed like the world was ending tomorrow. But I never believed them. Why? Because the world doesn’t just end overnight. It crumbles, bit by bit, when you’re not looking. We get worn down, we suffer, we die, all little by little.”
I tried to recall his rambling words.
“Then, right around the time the suits in their high-rises started noticing a few more kids dying in developing countries, that’s when the real end would come. So I figured, we’re all gonna die anyway. Might as well live free.” The old man had cackled, “But look at us now. What is this? The apocalypse just dropped in unannounced. The world ended, just like that! I didn’t see this coming. Those zombies running up the escalators at Seoul Station, jaws wide open… I can still see them as clear as day. I remember Mr. Kim, who died in his sleep next to me. Anyway, that’s how it came. Suddenly. And the irony? Most people died in the big, crowded cities. The people in those developing countries they looked down on mostly survived. Oh, and the pirates, I think they survived too. It’s all so damn ironic.”
I remember telling him I understood all that, but what did he mean by ‘the dinner table’?
“The dinner table? Listen. Think back. When they were all screaming about the climate crisis, what did those brilliant scientists blame? Carbon emissions. Cow farts. They said livestock farming was destroying the planet, that if we just stopped eating meat, we could stop it all. They shouted that for a decade. Please, save the environment!”
He hummed an old campaign jingle.
“But what did I say? The apocalypse doesn’t come suddenly. You’re starving, and there’s a cheap hamburger right in front of you. Who’s gonna say no? You know you should save the planet, but you grab the hamburger anyway. Because the world won’t end tomorrow. And because you’re just one person. The sea levels are rising, the glaciers are melting, the polar bears are starving, and what’s on our plates? Meat. The flesh of beasts.”
The apocalypse was already happening at the dinner table.
“Listen. What are those zombies doing? They’ve forgotten they were ever human, and now they’re trying to eat us. How is that any different from what we were doing? Them eating us, us eating cows and pigs—what’s the difference? All that’s happened is we’re not the predators anymore. We’re the prey, served up on the table.”
After his speech, the old man had laughed, pressed a crudely modified gun to his temple, and blown his brains out.
I forced myself not to look at the mess. I saw the fresh bite mark on his leg. He had chosen to die a predator. I made the sign of the cross and said a prayer for him.
Ever since then, whenever I see the Infected, I think of them as predators. They’re at the top of the food chain now. And we humans are below them… fighting back, yes, but ultimately, we are the prey.
I rolled down the jeep window. The cool air bit at my cheek. Just as the old man had said, the world was facing its fourth winter since the end.
“Agh, it’s so cold! Close the window! I’m already freezing to death as it is, so why are you opening the window?!” Yongcheol sniffled from the driver’s seat. For a guy built like a mountain, he had a ridiculous aversion to the cold.
“Yongcheol, how do you even function? You complain when it’s hot, you complain when it’s cold. Pick one and learn to deal with it.”
“It’s not Yongcheol! It’s D.I.! D-I! It’s not that hard. Why do you keep calling me Yongcheol?”
With his bear-like build and shaggy beard, the name Yongcheol fit him perfectly. But he insisted on D.I., as in Dragon Iron. It was as tacky as he looked.
“You’d trade the perfectly good name your mother gave you for a tacky handle like that? You’re a disgrace.”
“My mother gave me that rap name!”
“Oh. My bad.”
Feeling a little embarrassed, I glanced away. Yongcheol, unfazed, spoke again.
“So, did you look at the tablet? Pick our next job?”
He gestured with his chin toward the device he’d handed me.